


The Markets

by tinuelena



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-07
Updated: 2015-10-07
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:48:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinuelena/pseuds/tinuelena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Illya's childhood stomping grounds on the Finnish border to a farmer's market in Virginia, Gaby and Illya are undercover as a married couple and tracking a Syrian spy ring intent on seeking revenge for the CIA's 1957 attempt to oust their president. Things get chaotic when Gaby's cold, distant husband is accused of domestic violence, thanks to a black eye Gaby suffered in a fight with an enemy spy. Written as a prompt fill for ethala.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Markets

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for Ethala: 
> 
> They are undercover as husband and wife and at one point get attacked, leaving Gaby with a black-eye. Their covers are intact so Gaby explains to people that she fell or got hit by a door, but it's clear that some people think her huge, strong, kinda cold and scary-looking husband gave it to her. Illya is extremely uncomfortable with this, and Gaby can tell. she hates it too.
> 
> (Also: bonus points to anyone who finds the Miracle reference.)

August 28

1:12 p.m.

Kamennogorsk, Russia

 

                As Illya and Gaby walked across a field on the outskirts of Kamennogorsk, arm-in-arm, he wore a smile that he couldn't hide, no matter how much he tried. Gaby kept stealing glances at him.

                "What?" he demanded.

                She grinned. "I haven't seen you smile this much, I don't think."

                "It is not the Russian way."

                Gaby rolled her eyes and pulled him closer.

                "Have you not noticed? My countrymen do not smile as they pass." He nodded at the people walking down the grassy hill toward them; as Gaby observed them, she had to admit it was true.

                "So why is that? Do Russians get shot if they smile?"

                It was Illya's turn to roll his eyes. "We only give sincere smiles." He searched his words for the right explanation. "Americans use smiles for betrayal. They pretend to be sincere, but behind the smile is monster. A Russian smiles only when he means it. We are honest. Honest frown is better than fake smile."

                "So your smile is sincere."

                "Of course."

                "What's got you so happy?"

                He regarded her affectionately. "That you are having good times in my country."

                Illya and Gaby had been talking about spending some time alone together in Russia, but figured it would be a while before they got to take a vacation. However, after blowing the cover off a Syrian spy ring in the United States and interrogating the spies that they captured, they were on the next plane to Russia and headed to Kamennogorsk, one of three Russian towns in which another pocket of spies in the network was operating.

                Waverly's cover for Illya and Gaby was nearly foolproof: Illya was a Russian entrepreneur, back home from East Germany, where he had lost a business and gained a wife. Napoleon, meanwhile, was working in Moscow with an MI6 agent called Pamela. Gaby heard she was tall, brunette, and beautiful, well-read and fashionable, and had zero interest in the opposite sex. It cheered her up to think Napoleon would be frustrated.

                And she had truly enjoyed Russia so far, though it may have been mostly thanks to Illya's boyish enthusiasm to show off his beloved homeland. He clearly saw his home through rose-colored glasses; she knew the hardships that most of the country suffered under Communism, but she couldn't bring herself to extinguish the light in his eyes that shone through when he bought her a ridiculous little matryoshka doll from a market stall or suggested which vodka was the best for her martini in St. Petersburg, after flashing his KGB credentials to gain entry to a posh restaurant.

                "This is the place," Illya pronounced. "Come on." He led Gaby toward the massive tin-roofed building, the largest market-- and, in fact, one of the only such markets-- in Russia. Illya had explained the Karelian region, telling her that it was almost as much Finnish as it was Russian, and the Finns across the border made the market what it was. As a child, his family had taken trips to visit his aunt and uncle in Kamennogorsk, and the market had been a regular ritual. It had opened as a single barn-sized building; as the market grew, the owners tacked on ramshackle additions, never bothering to match the color or material of walls or roofs. As a result, it was a charming motley of worn materials: an architectural patchwork quilt.

                When they ducked inside, Gaby's senses were overwhelmed. Past simmering pots and big cases of freshly butchered meat, a wonderland of secondhand housewares awaited; beyond that, racks and racks of used clothes peeked over shelves filled with children's toys. In the aisles, shawl-wrapped grandmothers accompanied their daughters and sons and grandchildren, and their small-voiced shrieks and cries pierced the steady stream of Russian voices. A brunette girl, wrapped in a ratty coat, chose a new red pea coat. An old man laughed alone over a magazine. Strains of balalaika and svirel music threaded through the din. The thick smells of raw meat, spices, and home cooking hung in the air. "This is not Communist Russia," she pronounced.

                "No. Much more plentiful here."

                "Why doesn't the whole country come to this place?"

                "Well-kept secret," Illya responded.

                She caught another whiff of broth and meat. "Whatever's cooking," Gaby said, "I want to eat it."

                "Soup, I think. If Natasha is still here, you must try her soup."

                Hand-in-hand, they walked through the foods. Mounds of fragrant spices sat in chipped stoneware, everything from paprika to whole cloves to dandelion-colored turmeric; salmon basted with barbecue sauce sizzled over hot coals; a crate of bell peppers added a splash of color to a table otherwise filled with buckets of potatoes; baskets of sweets overflowed onto a beat-up whitewashed table. She noticed that the little foil-wrapped ones said that they were filled with водка-- vodka-- and vowed to return to the stand.

                "It _is_ Natasha," Illya said, gesturing toward a well-built woman with tufts of fiery red hair sticking out from a knotted headscarf and a well-worn floral apron tied around her waist.

                "Will she recognize you?" Gaby asked. "We're supposed to be undercover."

                "I have not been here since I was young. She will not remember me."

                They approached the stand, and Natasha smiled widely. "Little Illya? But you are so tall! How long it has been, little Illyusha!"

                He blushed at the use of the diminutive. "My name is Andrei."

                "Mmm. I know your eyes, they are Illyusha's blue!" She grinned knowingly. "Hush, Andrei, hush. But I know you." She patted his hand. "You have grown." She pulled at his jacket. "You are important now, hm? But you will not tell our secret! And I will not tell yours."

                Something about her demeanor told Gaby she could be trusted. Even Illya relaxed a bit.

                "There, what is Natasha cooking today? Have a look, do you both want a bowl?"

                Gaby peeked in. The tremendous cauldron simmered with blackened potato sausage, lentils, celery, cabbage, onions, and beans in a rich broth. "I do," she said in Russian. The aroma was intoxicating.

                Natasha ladled out a generous helping into a ceramic bowl, stuck in a spoon, and handed it to Gaby, who immediately shoveled a spoonful in her mouth and pronounced it absolutely delicious.

                "Andrei?" Natasha asked, smiling playfully.

                "Yes, please."

                She traded him a bowl of soup for a handful of rubles, and he moved aside so the next person could order theirs. A smile found its way onto his face again as he watched Gaby fairly inhale her soup.

                "What?" she demanded mid-bite, exasperated.

                "You are… милый.”

                She raised an eyebrow, smiling around her mouthful of sausage and lentils. "Did you just call me cute?"

                "Perhaps."

                "This is good, though. This is _so good._ I wish I could cook like this. If I actually lived here, I'd offer her free car repair for life in exchange for this recipe."

                Before he could tell her that she'd never take that trade, he caught a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. Upon another glance, it was unmistakably the brother of one of the spies they had captured last week. "Greta," he said slowly, "did you see spices?"

                "There were rows of them," Gaby said.

                "Where?"

                "They're right there, past the--" She turned around to point them out, and stopped when she saw the man lingering near the table. "I suppose," she said, "we should get some mulling spices and a couple of sacks of apples, if we want to make cider."

                "No hurry," he said. "Let's finish our soup."

                They drained their bowls, watching the younger Syrian purchase some spices. As he meandered down the row, they deposited their soup bowls and made their way over to a fruit seller. Gaby inspected some peaches, and Illya lifted a watermelon while watching the dark-haired man ask for the price of something. Gaby finally selected a sack of apples and kept an eye on their target as Illya paid. Across the way, he exchanged money for a jar of herring, glanced in their direction, and made his way toward the exit.

                Quickly, Illya and Gaby slipped out the front door after him.

                Immediately after rounding the corner, the Syrian broke into a run. Gaby and Illya chased him; it was Illya, with his long legs, who easily caught up to him first, grabbing him by the arms and hauling him to the ground.

                The Syrian, to Illya's surprise, was able to wrestle free from his grip, and Illya lunged for him. Gaby intercepted, swinging the bag of apples with all her might. She caught him in the stomach. The hit was hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and he reeled; acting on instinct, he whipped a gun from his jacket pocket and swung blindly, his flailing arm-- and the barrel of the gun-- connecting hard with Gaby's left eye.

                She stumbled back a few steps. By this time, Illya was back on his feet, knife in hand, and Gaby read the rage in his eyes. The math was easy: enemy spy plus deadly weapon plus injury to her face equalled death.

                The Syrian leapt at Illya, not noticing the blade, and Illya plunged it into his ribs. He gasped, clutching for a moment at Illya's sleeve, and fell onto the ground.

                Gaby and Illya knelt next to him. "Who are your allies in Moscow? Name them and I will bring you to hospital," Illya said.

                "U.N.C.L.E.," he choked out.

                Gaby's heart pounded; she'd forgotten her throbbing eye for the moment. "What?"

                "We know about your alliance," he managed. "Russians-- our friends-- in bed with the West. It makes us all sick." He closed his eyes. "They celebrate their country with fireworks. I hope they enjoy the irony."

                Illya shook him. "What are you meaning?"

                His eyes fluttered open. "My brothers-- blow up the capital." His bloody lips curved into a weak grin.

                "We captured them," Gaby told him. "They won't be doing anything."

                He laughed; blood gurgled in his throat, and it turned to a cough. "Of course. Because we wanted you to. They were careless so you would catch them. Why do you think they gave us up so easily? To get you off of American soil. You were on a plane to Russia while the others—the ones you did not catch— planted bombs. It is too late now, you are a world away..." For the second time, his eyes began to drift closed.

                Illya shook him again. "Why?"

                "Maybe America," he said with surprising hardness, "should look at the problems of its _own_ government before meddling in the governments of other countries."

                "Enough," Illya said shortly, and picked up the Syrian's pistol, putting him out of his misery.

                Gaby looked at Illya. "We have to get on the phone to the Americans."

                Illya nodded. "We can still help. He thinks the flight is ten hours. But we can do it in five."

                _"Five?"_ Her eyes were round. “What do you have up your sleeve?”

                "I need to call Oleg."

 

August 28

Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean

 

                The sun streamed through the windows of the jet as it sped through the air at two thousand kilometers per hour. Illya had placed the call to Oleg at the Kremlin, who had immediately ordered the new supersonic Tupolev Tu-144 to be prepared for flight. Illya and Gaby had flown to Moscow and met Napoleon and Pamela just in time to board the plane.

                "I knew something was wrong," Illya said again, shaking his head. "I knew a Syrian spy had no business in Russia. Soviet Union has good relations with Syria."

                "Why do they want to destroy the Americans so bad?" Pamela asked.

                "Our failed coup," Napoleon answered with a sigh. "In 1957, the CIA tried to oust Syria's president. We failed."

                Gaby thought of the fallen spy's words. _Maybe America should look at the problems of its own government before meddling in the governments of other countries._ Sighing, she adjusted the ice pack she'd had pressed to her eye off and on for an hour.

                The Americans had already located and defused the bombs planted by the Syrians, but they could not locate the Syrians themselves, although they had dispatched several teams to start combing possible locations. Napoleon and Pamela, who had successfully bugged the spies in Moscow, had enough information to make some good inferences about where to begin their searches. Napoleon and Pamela would be heading north, hunting down a lead in Bethesda, while Illya and Gaby would be keeping their cover as spouses, this time going south along the Potomac to Alexandria, where they'd be setting up a stall in a farmers' market across the way from a booth belonging to an alleged contact of the Syrians.

                Illya gently lifted the ice pack from Gaby's eye. A nasty shiner had blossomed around her eye, purpling her skin and swelling the area. Disregarding the fact that Napoleon and Pamela were present, he carefully kissed her temple. "It will hurt for some time, but nothing is broken, моя звезда.” He thought about continuing in Russian, but remembered that Napoleon spoke the language and would be able to understand everything he said anyway. "You are just as beautiful," he whispered in her ear.

                She smiled, but smiling hurt. "Oww," she complained, forcing her eyes to un-wrinkle.

                He couldn't help it. "Now who gets hurt if they smile?"

                Indignant, she elbowed him, but she was still suppressing a grin.

 

August 29

8:00 a.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

 

                "Well," Gaby said, turning in to a large parking lot, "this seems familiar."

                The Alexandria Farmers' Market was an open-air market. Though not as expansive as the ramshackle structure in Kamennogorsk, it was a large and well-established fixture of the community, with well over 200 vendors. The CIA had arranged for them to have a very specific spot. They'd be set up across from Frank Russell, who sold baked goods, but was rumored to actually be a broker of intelligence. At least one of the captured Syrians had been a regular at the market, and a Russell's label had been found in his apartment. Therefore, while the men and women of U.N.C.L.E. were catching a quick nap in the skies, the CIA had leaked some false intelligence that would be of interest to his still-free compatriots. With any luck, one of them would show up to collect it from Russell.

                She pulled the well-worn truck with _Holub Family Farm_ stenciled on the side into Spot 47 and jumped out. In a pair of overalls and a basic gray T-shirt, she certainly looked the part of a farmer's wife. She had touched up her eye with yellow color-correcting concealer and thick foundation as best as she could, but the bruise still showed through, and she found herself wishing for a big pair of sunglasses. But it was cloudy, not to mention a farmer's wife from Virginia wouldn't have a pair of Cazal sunglasses perched on her nose.

                They opened the creaky tailgate, and Illya set up tables while Gaby dumped a haul of autumn vegetables-- potatoes, squash, pumpkins, gourds, and corn-- into baskets and barrels.

                As Illya busied himself with posting price signs, the bakery van pulled in to the spot across from them. Illya eyed Frank Russell; he was a heavy-set man, with salt-and-pepper hair and a mustache to match. Black eyes glittered beneath thick eyebrows. He wore a signet ring on his little finger. Immediately, Illya decided he didn't care for this man.

                "Morning," he called. "You folks are new here... I haven't seen you before."

                "We arrived in America not long ago," Gaby said, thinking it wasn't a total lie. "Anton Holub was my husband's brother. I am not sure if you heard; he passed away. We've taken over the farm."

                "Sorry to hear that." He directed his sympathy at Illya. "I can't say I was acquainted with Anton. Did he come here before?"

                "We knew he sold at a farmers' market," Illya told him. "I guess we just assumed it was this one."

                "Maybe up in D.C. itself," he posited. "Name's Frank Russell."

                Illya shook his hand. "Kir Holub. This is my wife, Margrethe."

                "Glad to meet you." He glanced at Gaby's eye, thought about saying something, thought better of it, and instead said, "Better set up before people start arriving."

                While he busied himself with setting out sacks of bread, cookies, and other baked goods, Gaby and Illya earned their first customer of the day, a bare-faced woman wearing a loose maxi dress topped with a ratty cardigan. Gaby suppressed a smile; she could feel Illya's disdain toward their customer's clothing choices.

                "I'll just take a squash," she said, and Gaby presided over the table while she made her selection: a large dark green and orange acorn squash.

                Illya took care of the next customer while the woman in the maxi rummaged through her coin purse. She was smiling, but when she looked up at Gaby, her face fell. Abruptly, she dumped the change in Gaby's open palm, glanced warily at Illya, and marched along to the next stand.

                They were fairly busy for the first hour, though none of the comings and goings of the customers were at all suspect. They bought corn and squash from Gaby and Illya, and stocked up on bread from Frank Russell. No one lingered too long at Russell's stand, no one bent over to have hushed conversations-- though, Gaby realized, any conversation wouldn't take on a hushed, tense timbre. It would be encoded, possibly, in the easygoing language of the farmer's market. A man asking for a certain type of bread, perhaps, that Russell wouldn't have-- or would have just one sack left, a solid loaf with something baked into the middle. Passports? Information? These thoughts ran through her mind as she sold vegetable after vegetable, as she refilled the buckets and barrels from the heaps of produce in the bed of the truck.

                Though the mission was on the forefront of her mind, however, she couldn't help the nagging feeling that most of the customers at the stand suspected that life on the Holub farm wasn't too sunny. The dark ring around Gaby's eye, though masked with makeup, felt like a beacon to her. Too many people had glanced at Illya with disgust and disdain. Too many people had regarded her with pity. She knew what they saw: a petite, fragile-looking woman, married to a seemingly cold and distant man who was well over six-feet and built like a tank. After one particular customer-- an old man sporting a World War One Veteran baseball cap-- walked away muttering something to his wife about how "real men don't hit their wives" and "I've got a good mind to call the police," she exchanged a glance with Illya.

                As she went to the truck for an armload of corn, Illya turned, using the pretense of helping her to whisper in her ear. "They think I have done this to you."

                Gaby wanted to reach for his hand, but her arms were heaped full. "We know better." She turned, dumping the corn in the barrel.

                Illya simmered silently, his ire making him appear even more likely to be the culprit; one woman even tugged her husband by the wrist, indicating that they'd stop at a booth further down the row for their pumpkins.

                While Gaby wondered if she could find a place with better makeup, she let her attention wander for a moment. Illya's back was to Russell's booth; he was in the bed of the truck, pulling crates of produce toward the tailgate.

                Across the way, a man with a head of dark, glossy curls was bent in quiet conversation with Frank Russell.

                Gaby thought fast, grabbing some money from her cash box. She stood innocently in line behind the man, straining to hear the quiet exchange.

                "I haven't been able to get in touch with either of them. I thought Firos and Tarek were--"

                Frank's head snapped up then. "Yes, Mrs. Holub?"

                "I just came over to be a customer." She waved her money in the air. "We're getting peckish, and those cookies of yours look delicious."

                He gave a tight smile. "Of course. Do you want the half-dozen bag?"

                She nodded, and he made change for her while she offered a friendly smile to the curly-headed man. She noticed the family resemblance; this man was old enough to be a father or uncle to the others, she thought.

                Gaby crossed the row and set down the bag, taking off the twist-tie. She bit in to a chocolate chip cookie; they _were_ delicious. When she looked up, she saw a pair of twenty-something women staring at her. The brunette one looked sort of familiar, but she shook it off; she had a generic face, and it was probably dredging up memories of one of her old friends in East Berlin. Uncomfortable, she moved closer to Illya, who had just jumped down from the truck. "Is there something you would like?" she asked.

                The brunette girl perused their selection. "I'd like a half a dozen ears of corn," she said.

                Gaby reached for a paper sack and began to bag the corn. "Darling," Gaby said to Illya, loud enough for Frank to hear, "why don't you go to the pay phone and call home? I want to make sure the children are doing all right."

                Illya nodded, glancing at Russell's booth and catching the hint. "Good idea."

                Once he was safely out of earshot and on the way to call Waverly, the brunette girl in the red pea coat leaned forward. "Hey," she said, "you don't have to put up with this sort of thing from any man, no matter if he's put a ring on your finger or not."

                Gaby rolled her eyes. "Look, I appreciate your concern, but--"

                "I know you're not from this country. I don't know how things worked over there, but you don't need to put up with it here."

                "He didn't hit me," Gaby said impatiently. She glanced over the woman's shoulder; the Syrian still stood at Russell's booth, this time waiting for a young family buying a box of muffins. "I was half-asleep, going to feed the cows in the morning, and hit myself in the face with the door." She handed the sack of corn to her. "That'll be twenty-five cents."

                The girl handed over the quarter. "That's the oldest lie in the book."

                Gaby bristled. She wanted to tell this girl that Illya had certainly blacked eyes with his fist before but the only time he'd laid a hand on her it was to show his love; she wanted to tell her that he was violent enough to kill, but only in the line of duty and when her safety had been threatened. She wanted to tell her that the cold Russian standing in front of her was the warmest man imaginable, that he had saved her life on more than one occasion, and that he would hurt anyone who dared to touch her. But it was not the time nor the place.

                "My husband," she said through gritted teeth, deciding to tell a half-truth, "is the reason I am alive."

                "You don't owe him anything," she argued, and Gaby mentally hit her head against a wall, realizing how that had sounded.

                Across the way, Frank Russell nodded at the Syrian, who held a sack of bread in his hand. The Syrian glanced around the market, then set off in the direction of the exit, where the pay phones-- and Illya-- were located.

                Gaby's mind raced. She didn't want to chase him and tip off Russell. She also didn't want to create a scene in the market. With any luck, Illya would intercept him. But if he didn't--

                Making a split second decision, she went after him. The gun she wore thudded against her side as she walked briskly after him. She knew Russell would look up soon, possibly go for his own weapon, and she broke into a run. From behind her, she heard an avalanche of bread, and pictured Russell aiming for her; she pulled her own gun and dove forward in one swift motion, tackling the Syrian to the ground.

                Her advantage only lasted for the moment he was surprised. He recovered in short order the second he hit the ground, his hand darting toward his pants, but Gaby had already predicted this move. She drove her knee into his wrist, and a few of the fragile bones snapped. He cried out, and a few people came rushing over; when they saw Gaby's gun, they backed off.

                She went for the base of his skull with her elbow, simultaneously whipping her head around, weapon arm outstretched, ready to fire at Russell, should he be coming. She was met with a bullet whizzing past her ear, so close it sent her hair flying. She heard the soft sound of a pumpkin taking the hit, the footsteps of people scattering, the screams. She grabbed the Syrian's jacket and rolled him over, holding him up as a shield in front of her; he struggled while she wrapped her hand around his neck.

                Then, from behind her, the sound of another bullet. Illya. Strategically placed, the shot shattered Russell's kneecap, and he fell to the ground, howling in pain. Gaby shouted for him. "The Kiss!"

                Illya knelt behind them, and Gaby struggled to hold the Syrian still, but Illya put him to sleep with a well-timed smack, and he slumped.

                He got up, taking in the horrified gazes of the people who remained. "Don't touch," he warned them, pointing at the Syrian.

                Gaby guarded the unconscious man while Illya dashed over to Russell, who was trying-- and failing-- to get to his feet.

                "I am no one," Russell cried.

                "You are an informant," Illya spat. "Passing information to this man. You were involved in plot to bomb D.C."

                Russell shook his head. "No. I've-- I've sold intelligence, but not that. Ask him--" He glanced at the unconscious Syrian. "Ask him when he comes to. He will wake up?"

                As Gaby listened to this conversation, her instinct told her something was wrong. She thought back to Russia.

_Who are your allies in Moscow?_

_U.N.C.L.E._

                Gaby scanned the crowd, on her guard for possible allies of the two men; instead, she locked eyes with the brunette from earlier.

                "We're with the CIA," she told the gaping young woman. "If it satisfies you, I got the black eye from fighting with their friends." She nodded in Russell's direction, who was now handcuffed and lying on the ground. Illya, ruthless but not cruel, worked on stabilizing his wound.

                The brunette simply dropped her bag of groceries. Gaby saw the gun too late; the shell pierced her shoulder before she could duck.

                She recoiled, swearing in German, and the brunette drew back the hammer of her gun. Suddenly, Gaby knew-- _the brunette buying the red coat in Kamennogorsk._

                Out of the corner of her eye, the brunette saw two hundred pounds of Russian muscle coming at her, and she fired off a quick shot. The bullet missed Gaby, but ripped through Illya's leg, bringing him to his knees.

                Gaby charged at her, and the brunette ran, shoving people out of her way and tipping over buckets and carts and trays as she ran, trying to slow Gaby down. But Gaby smoothly leapt over the obstacles, her ballet instincts kicking in, and stayed right on her heels.

                Though Gaby was lithe, the brunette was faster, and Gaby soon realized she'd never catch her; she'd have to shoot. Acting quickly, she screeched to a halt, leveled her gun, aimed, and fired. The shot tore through the brunette's thigh and exploded out the front, showering the ground with red.

                "Why?" demanded Gaby, as the brunette clutched her leg, gasping. She'd put the final piece together as soon as she'd shot. "I saw you in Russia. In the market in Kamennogorsk. And I know you work in Waverly's office. But your hair is usually long and blonde. Sara, isn't it?"

                Gaby's words didn't cut through the pain; she tried again.

                "Tell me who you're working for," Gaby said, "who you're _really_ working for-- or I'll shoot through the other thigh."

                Tears in her hard little eyes, she looked up at Gaby.

                "Are you working for the Syrians?"

                "I _won't say anything--_ "

                Calmly, Gaby took aim at the other thigh.

                "All right-- all right. I'll cooperate.”

 _Allies in Moscow._ “Pamela Greer. Pamela is in on it too, isn’t she?”

She nodded. “Yes. Just-- I need a doctor--"

                Gaby tore off a piece of her shirt from under her overalls and held it to her own wound. "You think I don't? You think Illya doesn't? Both of our injuries are by your hand."

                "You care so much for him." Her lip curled into a sneer. "I still believe you lie to protect him. But maybe you deserve his beatings."

                "You haven't made it out alive yet," snapped Gaby. "Watch your mouth. I could let you bleed out right here. Answer my questions or I will."

                Sara shucked off her cardigan, finally having the presence of mind to try to stop the blood. She pressed it to her thigh. "I'm of no use to you dead," she said tersely, wincing as the fabric met the open wound. "And at this moment, with my cover blown, I'm of no use to them dead _or_ alive."

                "All the more reason for you to talk. Give us good information, and you know the deal; your life gets a little easier."

                "I committed treason."

                "No court of law has yet decided what you've done."

                Sara pondered this. "It doesn't matter anyway. What's done is done. The bombs may not have gone off, but do you think that's where we'll stop?"

                "You tell me."

                She drew herself up defiantly, as much as she could. "We will keep driving in the knife until the Americans collapse."

                Gaby felt lightheaded. She gripped her shoulder tightly. "That's a wonderful metaphor. But what's the next plot? What's the next knife?"

                "You think I'll tell you?"

                "Eventually." A black FBI van barrelled into the parking lot, tires squealing as it came to a halt. Armed personnel, outfitted in black, leapt from the back and swarmed the farmer's market. Gaby nodded at Sara. "Get her stabilized," she commanded weakly. "She'll have information for us. Get Waverly on the phone for me. Solo’s partner is a traitor. And where's an ambulance? I'm hurt, Illya's hurt, a few others are down-- this has been a mess."

                "On the way, ma'am," replied one of the nondescript officers; the moment after he'd said it, sirens blared, and a pair of ambulances slid into the lot.

               

August 29

2:00 p.m.

Alexandria, Virginia

 

                When Gaby awoke, she was lying on a gurney next to Illya, who was also on a stretcher. Someone had pushed them together, probably at Illya's request. Her shoulder had been bandaged; Illya's leg had been patched up accordingly, and his hand was on her shoulder. She kept her eyes closed for a moment and remembered Rome, remembered the first time she felt the gentle touch of Illya's fingers on her bare shoulder after she'd been thrown from Alexander Vinciguerra's Jeep. _The most gentle,_ she thought, her mind chewing up her sentences, _always, always..._

                "How could she think," she mumbled, half-asleep, "that you would ever--"

                "People see me and make their own minds up," he said bitterly. "I knew it when you got hit; I knew people would think I did it. I am violent man. I guess it is written in my face."

                Sensing his discomfort, she rolled onto her good shoulder to face him. "She worked for Waverly," she reported.

                "Yes. They have infiltrated U.N.C.L.E."

                "Not an easy task," Gaby said.

                "Her name was Sara," Illya told her.

                "I know."

                "Not Sara Miller. Sara Ismat. She is daughter of Syrian businessman... he has been slipping money to this group under the table. She started years ago working for them, as teenager."

                "So she was plotting to infiltrate MI6 when most other girls her age were plotting how to get their first date."

                "Exactly."

                "Is she still alive?"

                "They took her to hospital. They think she will be okay."

                “Solo?”

                “You gave Waverly that information just in time. Cowboy owes his life to you, I think.”

                She threaded her fingers into his. "Let's go back to Russia," she murmured.

                In surprise, his eyebrows shot up. "You want--"

                "People understand you there," she said slowly. "No one will think you gave me this black eye."

                He squeezed her hand. "You only want more of Natasha's soup."

                "I want to go to your _dacha_ , and meet the cats that wander the place, and sit in the sauna, and try to beat you at chess."

                "That last thing will not happen."

                She smirked. "I said _try._ "

                "And?" His tone was playful; a smile crept across his lips.

                "And I want to spend an entire afternoon lying with you like this. Well-- without fresh gunshot wounds, and hopefully on something more comfortable than a pair of stretchers."

                "And?"

                She moved closer. "And I want you to touch me just like this when we do. You've never been anything but tender with me, Illya, no matter how hard your fists drop our enemies."

                "Our enemies. I like that." He pressed a kiss to her forehead.

                She leaned into his warmth, closing her eyes again. "And yes. I want more soup."

                Chuckling, he wrapped an arm around her.

               

               

               


End file.
